


Through The Storm

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Of everything his brother had, this was what he coveted.
Relationships: New King/His Cruel Older Brother's Widowed Husband
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44
Collections: Anonymous, Anonymous Fics, Just Married Exchange 2020





	Through The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> Contains mentions of violence, past abuse.

He knew what the contents of the letter held even before he read it. There had been enough signs. From the ravens that circled overhead, never too far from his tent, to the sudden patch of mayflowers that sprung up next to the river two days ago. Their white petals had left him dumbstruck when he first caught sight of them. It was soon, far too soon. Barely a winter since his last visit - a quick one that served no purpose but to keep Esteban abreast of the situation on the front, and await orders that could have just as easily been delivered by letter. (He was perfectly aware of the reasons he was summoned home, paraded around like an overly decorated bauble to win the hearts of the commoners, his presence wielded like a weapon against the dissent of objectors too powerful to be silenced.) Upon reviewing the newly drawn-up battle plans, yet another reminder that the soldiers continued to be disposable pawns in the hands of his brother-King, he had grit his teeth to stop from voicing what he truly felt. Back then, Garçilaso had resigned himself to giving away his life for the land that nurtured him, and his brother willing to gift him a disposal more dignified than the one Catalina had been subject to. He attempted to take comfort in the fact that his blood would return to the earth whence it came, would not stain the cobblestones of the castle ( _his home_ ) like their sister's.

For the letter to be delivered now meant but one thing.

It did not stop him from gripping the side of the table in a bid to halt his swaying as he made sense of the ink swirls, took in the words. Over and over till the meaning settled in his mind as his heart continued to beat some mindless rhythm in his ears. He barred himself from giving voice to the lump in his throat, permitting a single, violent shudder instead as the faint scent perfuming the letter washed over him. His most recent exposure to the scent had been when he knelt before them, King and Consort, his eyes trained just out of reach. Casting a single look gaze upon the Consort, the sheer brazenness of it all - would be more than enough reason for heads to roll, but no amount of self-control could stop Garçilaso from recollecting the sense-memory what _home_ felt like. He always suspected there was little cause for Esteban to treat his husband as he did, save to exhibit his ownership. Over the Consort, over the throne, over the kingdom. Over all of their lives. However, it mattered not. That he associated the far-flung reaches of the Consort's potent magic with asylum and security did not mean the King would hesitate to gouge Garçilaso's own eyes out for his thoughts.

He may have been skilled with his blades and arrows, and they served him well out on the battlefield, but his brother always did understand the finer details of statecraft. It was why their father's ring rest upon Esteban's finger, no longer in its rightful place, hanging from the chain around Catalina's neck (her blood scarcely rinsed off the gleaming metal before he was made to kneel before his brother-King and swear his eternal allegiance). But that had been a fleeting tenure as well, had it not? Their unfortunate kingdom would witness its fourth regent in half a decade.

There were preparations to be made, instructions to be delivered, ceasefires to be drafted. Garçilaso gave one final look before he crushed the paper in his fists. The ink bled into his skin, anointing him as only a wartime coronation could.

***

His return to the capital and the subsequent proceedings were understandably, uncharacteristically subdued. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if their people had ever known a crowning that wasn't awash with grief and a general sense of melancholy. Even their cheers were hushed as the diadem was affixed on his head. Garçilaso could not blame them - he, too, was unable to shake the unnatural feeling of Esteban suddenly appearing in the throne room, blade at the ready to commence another one of his purges. It barely made a difference that it was him before the altar, the widowed Consort by his side, and Esteban six feet in the ground. Nevertheless, his head was held high as they tied his spirit to crown and kingdom, soil and waters. Catalina would not have accepted anything less.

The envoys returned with a treaty of suspension for four weeks, more than he had expected, though he would never concede to it. It meant that the wedding could take place after the requisite mourning period. 

The chosen day still crept up on him sooner than anticipated.

Later, he would hard-pressed to remember the events of the day. But moments stood out to him. The red string tied around their wrists, the colors of his cape seeping into the Consort's trousseau, the staff that changed hands, the rings that were gravid with their respective commitments. And the old words spoken in confident tones, enveloping them like a heavy winter blanket. He felt like he was present, and that he was not. It took until he finally clasped his new husband's hand with his own before awareness rushed into him like the rains that blessed their fields.The ceremony was swift, the celebrations a farce, and before he could touch his lips to the wine, they were ushered to their rooms.

He hadn't seen inside these chambers in years, not since it belonged to Catalina, as she sat them before the fireplace, and spun tales of ogres and selkies, battles and rescues, glory and good fortune, as expertly as any seamstress. Not in this lifetime did he expect to find himself here again, wedded and nervously awaiting his husband. He had known fear - hands shaking imperceptibly when his father wrapped his hands around the reins, urging him break in his first horse; voice caught in his throat as Esteban signed their sister's death warrant, wracked with incredulity as it hit him that Catalina would not live to see another day; trembled when his sword slid out of another man, resplendent with blood and marrow. And now. Married to the man he had only ever known as his brother-King's Consort.

The creak of the door shook Garçilaso out of his reverie; and it was in that manner, with a surprised jerk of his head, that his eyes caught the first sight of Alamar's face.

He had never addressed the other by his given name before, even in the deepest recesses of his own mind. But they were fated, made one, by the ties of matrimony now, he had stood before Alamar only hours ago as they pledged themselves to each other (he insisted on having their bond spring both ways). Even now, his attention was torn between the ring he slid on his new husband's fingers and the precious face in front of him.

An eternity went by before Alamar padded his way to the bed. He was clothed in the soft, virginal blues, more for the tradition than any semblance of verity. The translucent fabric was unable to obscure the last remnants of Esteban's claim over him. He had been witness to the extent of his brother's cruelty before but the brutality of it painted across Alamar's skin so viciously shocked Garçilaso to his very core. With unmistakable evidence of how he had been treated, the very notion that the earth magic Alamar wielded had not yet abandoned their accursed land, and that their armies continued to fight undefeated was beyond belief.

Or maybe that was testament to the strength of the Consort's character.

Alamar looked at him, patient, wary, perceptive. Forgiving, though not two touches had passed between them. It made Garçilaso repeat the words he tattooed into his brain since he was young; the other, private vow to himself.

He would not be his brother.

They were drawn to each other slow as molasses, settling atop the bedclothes. Words had passed between them, through drapery and paper. But this was different, beguiling. Garçilaso could no sooner have stopped himself from leaning in to kiss his husband than he could have cut off his sword-wielding arm. Proper and chaste, as that of innocents - a title Garçilaso certainly had no claim to, not with all that he had done. Not when he was wicked enough to find it difficult to mourn his brother, even as he loved Esteban's widower.

And love him he did. The knowledge ought to have chilled his bones, to know that were he given an opportunity, he might have considered cuckolding his now-dead brother. It would never have passed in a million years, not with all the magic on their side. Save for the strange fate that brought him here, to Alamar's bed.

Someday they would move as one entity, an ebb and flow of fragile, ever-building affection. Someday there would be more physical affirmations of the desire to not only shield and protect, but adore and cherish, worship Alamar on a pedestal, like he deserved to be worshipped. Garçilaso could hardly wait for them to move beyond this realm of gracelessness into a more self-assured, certain, comfortable love. Too soon perhaps, but he was sure as he would ever be that there was no turning back for him, not from Alamar. He was entrenched too deep, reluctant to ever sever himself from his husband.

He understood that his wishes did not necessarily have to translate into reality. If he wished to mark himself as a man who was not a replicant of his brother, he would let Alamar free to do as he pleased. They never had to find their pleasure in one another, and a deep-rooted companionship would be the best thing Garçilaso could hope for. 

Still breathing softly against his lips, his husband moved impossibly closer to him, blinking slowly. As much as he shielded himself with an optimistic sort of caution, Garçilaso would have to be a fool to not comprehend what the other was saying without words, welcoming his touch.

After years of chase, he achieved what he set out to do. He was not his brother.

Alamar's curls were soft and springy beneath his hands as they played in some gentle pattern. He hoped against hope that his husband would learn to accept affection without flinching ever so often, he prayed he could one day weave flower crowns in his hair, the way Catalina had taught him to, all those years ago. The way he hoped he could teach their children, and grandchildren, some day.

Pulling his husband closer to him, Garçilaso covered the softer hand with his own calloused one. Of everything that Esteban had, this was the only thing he coveted. He wondered if he would ever get over how Alamar's fingers bewitched him, drawn like a lodestone to brush his lips against the soft skin encased in body-warm metal of his commitment, sealing his promises with his oath. "This is the only ring I am beholden to."

**Author's Note:**

> Dear The_Plaid_Slytherin, I hope you like this! I wanted it to be much longer, but I hope you find it to your satisfaction at any rate. :)


End file.
